


Defect

by LegionLight



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Character Adaptation, Danganronpa 3 Aftermath AU, Gen, May remain as a one shot, Physical Defect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 05:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegionLight/pseuds/LegionLight
Summary: Kemuri Jataro, the resident sculptor of Jabberwock Island, attempts to find and sustain a method to fight his physical defect's existence.





	Defect

Beach sprouted, top crooked trees with hanging coconuts. Sand brushing, uneven spreading ocean waves basking in sunlight. Air flapping, eight numbering flock of shaded birds. Dirt pressing, grass crushing remnants of traveled shoes. Cold melting, sun shining mixture of vanilla and strawberry ice cream. Wide emoting, pale-tone fading expressions of him and her.

Out of the heptagonal placed and counted pictures, the last one held his gaze the longest by far. It's a moment of utmost importance, beyond that of island nature, given visual representation by a square-shaped display. It's a dear, forever reminder outside of memory. It’s a construct of a emitted flash, prompted by a button press on a favorable device. It's a stilled image of free and stress separated happiness, during a day with grey clouds ruling the sky.

It of course wasn't perfect. She is amazing, smiling brightly while having her hand gently grasping his far shoulder. He is weird, looking dimmed as he unsteadily grinned. She made the picture great. He made the picture terrible. Their faces contained the same emotion, but were different in showing it.

His face should be better. Maybe if his eyes were more open, more awake? Perhaps he should've stuck his tongue out? Or…the problem here, was that he could've stopped the grin from forming.

Yes that is the main problem, it always has been. But how could he have stopped the grin? With his teeth and tongue, putting pressure on his lips? With his knuckles, pushing the up-turned corners back near his mouth? With his ears, listening to music that can come from his mind? With his nose, breathing in the good scented air? With his eyes, focusing and examining a piece of this island patch of world? What was it that he had to do?

Pacing backward from the refrigerator, he allowed his gaze to glance about. First he saw the paper plates, containing the forks and knives of silverware. Next was the many high and low cabinets, each of their doors opened by mere inches. Thirdly is the nearest window, the glass receiving only a peek's worth of rising sunlight. Then fourthly was the wooden interior of the cottage, the lined spaces between boards standing out more then usual. And lastly the ceiling fan, having slow spinning blades and a blinking bulb.

His answer, his solution to this common-occurring problem, felt so close to be found. Maybe he had already found it? Perhaps he was just trying to rediscover it? He wasn't certain, and he didn’t want to be so. Because uncertainty made him nervous. And being nervous would cause his lip corners to stretch, creating the grin.

Attempting to prevent the grin by pressing his lips together, he began walking and sending quick looks in multiple directions again. One bookshelf of four filled of one quarter marked, laid books. Two available seats on the living room couch, covered by half-folded blankets. Three long necked lamps, huddled together while three-quarters of their lights' source can be seen. The fourth door built for this home, opened as wide as it can possibly be.

He thought he had closed it last night. She didn't say anything about it still being open. Was she asleep when he’d ascended the stairs? Did she just not notice, like him when they came back up here? He wasn't certain, he was nervous, here comes the spreading grin.

Shaking his head, he tossed the unanswered subject away for another time. Seeing the door as the way it is, he decided to come closer to it. Approaching it by sliding and placing one foot in front of the other, he noticed a faint flicker. Believing it to be the light from below, he stepped onto the first stair. Leaning foward and down, whilst holding onto the leftward wall rail, he saw that the flicker definitely carried the color of mint-green.

Without sparing a glance over his shoulder, he proceeded to descend the stairs. As he went further downward into the sublevel, the reach of the blinking blub's white light lessened. Then once he passed by it's farthest inch, he moved into the daunted black of darkness. The flicker held a dim, barely kept presence amongst it.

Hearing and feeling his shoes touch the sub-level floor, he pulled himself away from the wall rail. Fixating his gaze onto the flicker, he side-stepped over to the rightward wall. Placing his palm firmly against the concrete, he slid it over until his fingers found a knob. From what he recalled of his clear memory, he knew to maneuver his hand around it. He felt a second, then a third, and finally a fourth circular switch. Then he gave small twists to all of the knobs, following the order of: 2, 1, 4, 3.

The mint flicker was joined by not only one another, but two unflinching moss colored beams. As the bulbs of mint slightly brightened, the bulbs of moss darkened. The lights of mint-white revealed the tints and shades of a rectangular-wide, square-heighted room, driving back all black to the corners and near the other walls. The ceiling was of Sacramento and pine tones. The floor was of fern and lime colors. A lone mirror remained leaning against the far opposing wall. And in the direct center, was a covering sheet of bronze and silver.

Walking to the sheet, he raised one hand to join his other. Stopping in front of the dual hued linen, he pressed his knuckles into it. Finding his pushing resistance meeting no tough grin spreading persistence, he hurried his movements. Using both groups of his knuckles, he shoved the bronze and silver off. Catching a part of the sheet between two of his right fingers, he stepped to the corresponding side. Seeing the figure that had been hidden, he tilted and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

The mirror showed him standing before a stone taller than he. As it was untouched by dust and grime, the last remnants of water and sweat disappeared from his facial features. It is faceless, limbless, and its singular detail of a form is exposed. He brushes strands of dirt-hued hair aside from his grey eyes, trails one left knuckle down his right cheek, and pats a spot of the shaded-beige outfit he wears over most of his body. It is unmoving. He is breathing, undoing the tie-knot keeping one pocket of many closed, and brings out a pointed chisel and hammer.

Arming both hands with those tools, he started to work. Taking steady breaths, he chips tiny crumbs off from the top. They easily fell onto the floor. Then after some minutes, an incomplete circle outline lay around the stone figure.

Backing up a bit, he tightened his leftward grip on the chisel. Arching his head against his rightward shoulder, while the grip of the hammer loosened. Letting his knuckles dangle, the pounding instrument was allowed to rest on the palm. Pointing his wrist up, he let a lone left finger gesture at the dents he made.

They were too short.

Shaking the hammer off with a flick, he merely heard the tool meet the floor with a clack. Dragging his knuckles over his outfit once more, he touched one of the larger pockets littering his side. Unfastening the restraints, he sent tip-toeing fingers into the leather storage. Retrieving a bigger, certainly more task-suited hammer of 3lbs, he paced and placed himself back in front of the figure.

Giving his motions a boost in speed, he resumed this current craftsmanship. Instead of crumbs, chunks ranging from sizes more than pebbles, to less than of golf balls were removed from the whole's upper half. When they are separated, quick swiping motions hit or miss individual chunks. For those that are hit, they are sent flying into the dark outskirts. For those that aren't, they land somewhere under the illuminated area. Then in what was either an hour or half of one, the floor below light is mostly littered, and the stone now has the start of upper body limbs.

Thrusting his chisel wielding hand towards himself, he moved four inches away. Gazing at his made progress, his hand slightly shook as it was directed to a breast pouch. Needing not to dismantle the knots serving as locks, he hurriedly tossed his digits into the rather lengthy containment. Pulling out two different shaped and purposed chisels, he acted hastily on giving them better placements. Slipping one into the left sleeve, he set the other between his biting teeth.

With his own limbs trembling lightly, he continued his task and went at a faster pace. On and off he switched chisels to match the next, exact priorities needed to cut chunks. The chunks themselves took longer to take apart from the upper half, for they were done so in larger portions. The pieces now, are divided between the thin-unusually shaped, and the inches thick-commonly shaped. The thin-unusual pieces are permitted to drop, as well as join the other parts beneath mint/moss light. The inches-thick common parts are grabbed before they can, and are either thrown, or sent flying by a random punch into the bellows of darkness. The time divulged amounts to the same as before, half or a full hour.

Pushing his wrists up and out, he stumbled until he was four feet from his sculpture. It was done one third of the way. There was leftover lines of stone, clinging to the whole by connections with the width of gathered threads. There was bare arms, with blocks ready to become hands and without skin detail. There was a chest, with nothing that will be rectified. There was a neck, admittedly not provided much focus due to the thin outcome. There was a head, with detailing that he…he…

The trembling of his body elevated. The instruments he used were released from his possession. The stumbling briefly resurfaced before being replaced by staggering. The pattern of his breathing became erratic. The denying instinct was dying as anger was rising.

He made the face of something that should've never been created.

Ignoring his restricting nervousness and holding back forces, he advanced with fast speed. Breaking the knots confining another tool, he wretched it out from his side. Swinging it with loose precision, he had the cleaver slice through every weak leftover. As each attaching line was cut, his grip was tightened more and more. Then when it came time for the head, he used both hands to power his last attack. The damn thing was severed, and kicked just as it was two feet above the ground.

It crashed against the far mirror, left a cornered dent with outwardly spread cracks, and split upon making contact with the floor space divided by white tints and black shades.

Sprinting shoes ran up behind him. Rushing arms wrapped around his mid-section. Attempting hands of calming grasped both of his wrists. Questioning sentence spoken softly tried to travel inside his ears. Warming presence of her recent moments spent outside, clashed with his cooled body temperature of staying inside.

He couldn't fully hear her. He couldn't find her attempts to be soothing. He couldn't bring himself to somehow answer her. He couldn't bear to show her worried face, his surprisingly unfeeling grin.

Wait now, unfeeling? Why now, when he always felt it's formation? When now, did it become itself if he couldn't feel? How? What?

Forcing his wrists to wrestle out of her grasp, he propelled his knuckles up. Pressing them to his lip corners, he found their positioning to be less that than of a grin. Glancing at the mirror for confirmation, he saw that the grin wasn't there. Sitting in it's place, was instead a fine conduct of a smirk.

Realizations and meanings unfolded themselves in his mind. They are cruel, ironic twists of circumstances. They contained strange, but familiar messed lines of reasoning. They're clear, fathomable explanations of an uncovered method!

Wrenching himself out of her arms, he began heading to the split head. The pain from his kick was finally found. He groaned through chattering teeth. He resolved himself to proceed with a limp. And he pushed himself away from her multiple tries to stop him.

Reaching the split head, he fell to his knees. Biting back his sounds of hurt didn't do allot. So instead he settled for not focusing much on the cause. And then by using his knuckles, he pulled the mostly intact face to him.

The two differently shaped eyes, one being a dot while the other a lighting-like bolt. The implicated division of absent monochrome. The roundish, and edgeless outline. The contradicting mouth halves of a round hole, and a grin made up of fangs.

Looking into the mirror's dent, his grey eyes met her olive ones. Hers showed a dire concern. His showed an inspired idea. And for said idea to work, he needed her help now more than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> This particular idea came to me during the day before yesterday. I was writing, mostly thinking things through instead of typing out the next part of Danganronpa: Afterhell, when my mind started thinking about one of my favorite Danganronpa characters. I have thought about writing about him before, but in a novel-lengthy story that I'm not sure of even doing in the future. But since Halloween had just passed, I decided to create this.
> 
> Now, depending on the amount of positive feedback I receive from you readers, I might add two more parts onto this. Not to mention extending and changing the title, adding character tags, and letting you all read more of my work on this. So I hope to get your feedback, hopefully more reasonably good than bad. And thank you for reading!


End file.
